Meeting the Coddie

Many visitors to Barra during the 1930s and 1940s came to the island for the draw of Compton Mackenzie. For a dozen years Mackenzie stayed on the island initially in Northbay before eventually building Suidheachan, his residence sitting adjacent to the scenic Tràigh Mhòr, a cockle strand that also doubles as the island’s airport. Mackenzie, inspired by the foundering of the SS Politician would later go on to publish his most famous novel Whisky Galore! (1946), subsequently made into a highly successful Ealing comedy. Filming took place exclusively on Barra during the rather wet and windy summer of 1948. One of the inspirations for Mackenzie’s farcical comedy was none other than John MacPherson, who plied the novelist with many anecdotes and stories of what had actually happened. Mackenzie in one of his many volumes of autobiography would later describe MacPherson as: “The outstanding character of Northbay.” Obviously MacPherson’s reputation preceded him for John Marshall, a writer, came to visit him in 1951 and the result was published in The Scots Magazine. Marshall’s observations, here reproduced in full, give a marvellous insight into the Coddie’s personality as well as his ability at spinning yarns:

I had hear tell of the “uncrowned King of Barra” long before I met him. And I had often wondered that there was about this John MacPherson, by-named “The Coddie”, that made so many people in such diverse walks of life eager to claim his acquaintanceship and friendship.  For among the friends of Coddie are Scotsmen, Irishmen, Englishmen and Americans; nobles, knights and commoners; clergymen, scientists, business tycoons; actors; authors, bureaucrats; old and young, men and women.
I found the reason when I met Coddie: sheer personality. For in the days when people are more and more conforming to standard; it’s refreshing to meet a character who cannot be dismissed as mere “type.”
The outline of his life-story can be told quite simply—as he tells himself: “I’ve tried a great variety of jobs in my day. I’ve been to sea. I’ve followed the herring—and the white fish, too—most places around our coasts. I started a wee shop on this island. Not long after, the gales scattered it—shop and all it contained—to the four winds and the sea. That night I near wept my eyes out; but I started up again—and this time I got on; later I got the Post Office. After a while they sent me to the District Council, then I went to Inverness as a County Councillor, but I gave up the public committees after we lost the boy in the Air Force. And here I am to-day.”
The highlights of his public life have been two. The first was when, as Barra’s representative on the County Council, he saw success crown his campaign to obtain a new landing-stage for the island at Castlebay. The second was but two years ago, when the people form studio-land came to Barra to film his friend Compton Mackenzie’s “Whisky Galore.”
Then Coddie found himself in the role of diplomat and (honorary) adviser to the “feelums” (as Barra called them). He served as mediator and moderator between the “feelums” and the island population. His advice was sought on local colour and local customs; on terrain for shots in the story. He helped towards the smooth working of local arrangements, of local participation. He was all but an actor himself! He was briefed for a part, but—“when I heard I was to make belief that I was a sick man, failing for the want of whisky, I wasn’t very happy about doing it; and then when I was asked to be acting a dead man—oh, no! that was the end of that.”

Despite the fact that he thus spurned the scene, the producer, director and stars of “Whisky Galore” have set it on record that although the film would have been produced even without many of themselves, had it not been for the Coddie there would have been no “Whisky Galore.”

Indeed, to take the matter a stage further, one wonders if the book, “Whisky Galore,” would have been written at all, had not the Coddie been the Coddie! For the friends of Coddie, far and wide, hold it as an axiom that one of the great characters of the novel bears a very strong resemblance—purely coincidentally, it may be, of course!—to the author’s friend, Coddie.
Coddie’s success in the public side of his life may well derive, I suspect, from the very strength of his private appreciation of life. Like all “characters”, he is an individualist. (It’s noteworthy that most of the really sociable people have the deepest feeling for individual privacy!) Coddie has the secret of balancing the public with the private side of living. Many of this film-star friends must have longed for the courage to try his recipe for a “world too much with us”: “When you feel that the world can’t get on without you, and you are bowed down with the things that need doing or worrying over—then it’s time you were off to lie all by yourself in your bed for a couple of days and let the big world roll by for a space.”
Coddie is a small man, a well-built man. His face is strong face: aristocratic Highland nose, expressive and sensitive mouth, clear blue eyes, gesticulatory white eyebrows, a patriarchal white moustache. His thick head of hair is almost ever covered with the peaked cap of the sort we once called a “deep sea bunnet.”
As befits a diplomat, he has a fine feeling for language. Not only for his native Gaelic, but even for our English, which he speaks like a king. If anyone in the conversation chanced to coin a particularly apt phrase, Coddie was always the first to catch it up, savour it with his own tongue and nod approval. But, better still, to catch Coddie himself in mood for ceilidh—at his own fireside or in the westering summer sunlight at the long bench outside the garden gate. Then you meet Coddie the Story-teller. His favourite tales are from the folk-lore of his island. Some of the tales are of witchcraft and magic. All his tales, when he tells them, have his element of magic—the compelling magic of the born story-teller and wizard with words. Not that he tells the tales with words alone; for they are punctuated with nods and sideways movements of the head, now and then and elevation of the mobile eyebrows, a pursing of the lips, a portentous downward roll—or a mischievous sideways flick—of the eyes.

I mentioned the bench where Coddie holds his court in summer. It is placed athwart the path of all who enter the Post Office; it faces the hills in the west, looks over the head of the North Bay and the road that branches off to the northern peninsula of the island where the air-landing place is; and it is just across the road from the church, and but a stone’s throw from the little jetty which the Coddie built for the coal-puffer to unload at, and near which his own boat lies moored.

Coddie is an artist of the spoken word, a story-teller, philosopher and sage. Let it not be thought that all that adds up to a poetic, mystic dreamer, out of touch with the hard realities of everyday life. Far from it. Coddie is namely for throughout the Isles for his business acumen and his organising powers. Even in the little details, Coddie is never sleeping. One day when we were out in the boat, one of us noticed a distant tanned sail off the coast near Eoligarry; mentioned it casually to Coddie. That evening, Coddie with triumphant wink displayed a great platter of prime, red-spotted flounders. He had put two and two together, jaloused that the flounder season was started, and got in for a share of the first catch.

Coddie—always the perfect host—puts his organising talents at the service of his guests at Northbay. You’ve never seen an annual sheep-shearing on a small isle in the Oitir Mhor? Well, Coddie will see that you do, if you’re about at the right time of year. And if the wind and weather is set fair, even the worst sailor in the world, after a chat with Coddie about the beauties of the Isles, blazes into enthusiasm for a sea-trip to Eriskay, Fuday, South Uist or Mingulay; and—of course—the Coddie can arrange it, if they like
Coddie has a taste for irony, enjoys a gently-humorous situation. His own humour is of a fine pastel short. One evening a trio of kilted Lowlanders arrived to join the circle round Coddie’s garden bench. Decent lads they were, but somewhat baldly and abruptly—without the customary ceremonious preliminaries and “leading up”—they asked to hear a fairy story, maybe about a water kelpie.

For a moment some of us expected the Coddie to “dry up”, or hang back. But, no, he started the tale of the last kelpie that was seen in Barra, who appeared to an island maiden in the form of a beautiful young man. “Yes, a very beautiful young man,” went on the story-teller, interpolating a new thought to the established text of his tale, “but, unfortunately, tradeetion does not relate to us whether the beautiful young man was dressed in a kilt.” The he looked up in bland surprise at the gust of laughter—led by the three newcomers—which greeted these words.
But if one were asked for the truly central characteristic of Coddie, one would probably say—genuine feeling for his own native corner. For many of us in Northbay, Barra, is synonymous with “Coddie’s home.” Coddie’s friends from all over the world have instinctively recognised and esteemed that enthusiastic local patriotism which finds expression in so many forms: pride in the language of Barra, interest in its history and customs past and present, his telling of the tales that stem from its folk-lore, hospitality to the island’s visitors—and infectious enthusiasm to let them see the places he loves to look on himself.
And Coddie is blessed in having such a lovely native place to inspire him: where heather hills enwrapping flower-decked lochs rise up behind him: where before him and to east of him are the involutions of long creeks (such as the Outer Islander calls “bays”), forming a puzzle key-pattern of land and water; seaward of the creeks the crystal-clear green and blue shoal waters of the Oitir Mhor, bejewelled with other islands, big and small, between Barra and South Uist; and where but a short distance to west of him are the incredibly white beaches, unmarked by footprints for the most part, where Atlantic billows break; and everywhere the wild flowers. That is the land Coddie has lived with—and for which he is to many a sort of focal point of human loyalty, in fact, “the uncrowned king.”

References:

John MacPherson, Tales of Barra: Told by the Coddy, ed. by John Lorne Campbell (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 1992)

John Marshall, ‘Meeting the Coddie’, The Scots Magazine, vol. LIV, no. 6 (1951), pp. 473–77

Image:

John MacPherson, ‘The Coddie’, Northbay, Barra, early 1950s.

The Coddie: John MacPherson, Uncrowned King of Barra

Sir Compton Mackenzie, perhaps most famous for his comedic novel Whisky Galore (1947), described the Coddie (sometimes the Coddy) as “the outstanding character in Northbay.” Owing to recurrent surnames in the islands nicknames came in handy so John MacPherson was given his at a young age which stuck to him all his life. His patronymic was far longer, Iain mac Nèill ’ic Iain ’ic Aonghais ’ic Chaluim ’ic Iain but, to many an outsider, he was simply known as the “Uncrowned King of Barra.”

MacPherson first saw the light of day in the township of Northbay, Barra, in 1876 and was a son of Neil MacPherson and Ann MacLachlan. In his fine introduction to MacPherson’s Tales from Barra: Told by the Coddy (1960), John Lorne Campbell (1906–1996) described the Coddie as:

Rather short, thick-set and Napoleonic; he had an extremely fine-looking head and was quick of movement – and of speech, whether in English or Gaelic. His MacPherson forebears originally came from Benbecula…The MacPhersons or Curries or MacVuirichs are sharp on their tongues and apt scholars.

In 1951, in conversation with another writer, John Marshall, the Coddie summed up his life thus far:

I’ve tried a great variety of jobs in my day. I’ve been to sea. I’ve followed the herring—and the white fish, too—most places around our coasts. I started a wee shop on this island. Not long after, the gales scattered it—shop and all it contained—to the four winds and the sea. That night I near wept my eyes out; but I started up again—and this time I got on; later I got the Post Office. After a while they sent me to the District Council, then I went to Inverness as a County Councillor, but I gave up the public committees after we lost the boy in the Air Force. And here I am to-day.

MacPherson’s verbal virtuosity manifested itself as a skilled raconteur and wit and with his oftentimes witty stories together with his ability to hold an audience no matter what their cultural background, attracted a bewildering range of people who came knocking at the Post Office house in Northbay:

Coddy’s personality and talents as a host brought him before long a large number of visitors, some of them distinguished ones – peers, politicians, officials, descendants of Barra emigrants to Canada and the U.S.A., scholars from Scotland, Norway and Gaelic Ireland, archaeologists, ornithologists, sportsmen and holiday-makers … all made their way to the Coddy’s, attracted by his vigorous personality and the kindness and hospitality of his wife and family.

What attracted these various people was that the Coddie was not only a character but a very able storyteller who knew intimately the traditions of his native island and had such a way with words and with his storytelling style could charm a visiting audience as only he knew how:

As befits a diplomat, he has a fine feeling for language. Not only for his native Gaelic, but even for our English…If anyone in the conversation chanced to coin a particularly apt phrase, Coddie was always the first to catch it up, savour it with his own tongue and nod approval. But, better still, to catch Coddie himself in mood for ceilidh…Then you meet [the] Coddie the storyteller. His favourite tales are from the folk-lore of his island…his tales, when the tells them, have his element of magic—the compelling magic of the born storyteller and a wizard with words. Not that he tells the tales with words alone; for they are punctuated with nods and sideways movements of the head, now and then and elevation of the mobile eyebrows, a pursing of the lips, a portentous downward roll—or a mischievous sideways flick—of the eyes.

Outside the Post Office sitting on his bench, the Coddie was wont to hold court and would engage in conversation with all and sundry. This was when he was in his element and if the mood took hold—as oftentimes it did—he could be the consummate entertainer. An example of the Coddie’s repertoire about a method of divination, recorded and transcribed by Calum Maclean on the 23rd of January 1947, may be given in translation:

A' chiad Dia Luain dhe’n ràithe, nì thu frìth an latha sin, mas urra dhut a dhèanamh, ’n uair a bhios an latha a' bristeadh a-mach aig dealachadh nan tràth. Na daoine a nì frìth chì iad nichean a tha a' tachair^st agus rud a tha a' dol a thachair^st. Chì iad cuideachd daoine th' air chall, a bheil iad beò na mar^abh. Chunnaic mi fhin té an Uibhist agus dhèanadh i frìth; Catrìona Dhonn^achaidh an t-ainⁱm a bh' oirre.

And the translation is as follows:

The first Monday of the new season, you will make the frìth [augury], and if you can, first thing in the morning when the dawn breaks. People who perform this augury will see things happening and events that are about to happen. They also see people who have gone missing and whether they are dead or alive. I saw myself a woman in Uist performing this augury. Her name was Catrìona Dhonnchaidh.

Every story that he told was stamped with his warmth and personality that would always seem to shine through and his repertoire had a wonderfully eclectic mix of myth, tradition and anecdote.

Alasdair Alpin MacGregor (1899–1970), a prolific travelogue writer and frequent visitor to the Western Isles, visited the Coddie in 1948 and the ensuing conversation was recollected as follows:

…he spoke of Prince Charlie with an intimacy which would have made me reluctant to disbelieve him, and he mentioned that he was one of the Seven Men of Moidart, returned from the dead, and now dwelling in Barra, committed to the sacred duty of keeping green, in that locality, the memory of the luckless Jacobites. Indeed, nothing would have surprised me less than to have learnt from his own lips that he claimed to be the descendant of Cluny MacPherson, that valorous name-sake of his, better known to Scottish history as Cluny of ‘the Forty-five’.

“There’s a bit more I should be telling you about Fuday,” the Coddy interposed the other day, recalling a previous conversation he and I had concerning this grassy isle lying in the Sound of Barra, at no great distance, from his home at Northbay. “But wait a moment,” he added, “while I get the magic wand I like to have in my hand when storytelling to the likes of yourself.” Straightway he made for the sitting-room of his house, in order to take from its customary corner there, the bamboo stick which, he informs me, the harsh landlord occupying the north end of Barra after the Clearances used as a means of frightening anyone refusing to obey his commands.

Thereafter the Coddie, clutching his bamboo stick as a prop, continued his narrative:

“In the ‘Forty-five’, MacNeil of went over to Fuday to see a man, Donald MacInnes, who was then a prosperous crofter on the island. MacNeil explained to MacInnes that he came to Fuday to ask him for money to assist Bonnie Prince Charlie, who was about to land in Scotland to claim the throne of his ancestors. Without any delay, MacInnes put his hand on a mogan–he had it hidden away behind the rafters: that was the bank, you see–which contained three hundred pieces of gold; and he gave it all to MacNeil for the good cause. That’s worth recording, you’ll agree. You won’t collect the like of that one anywhere else than from myself…A good cause it was; and we all know what happened to it, without criticising it in any shape or form…We all know it was lost.

It is probably trite to say but there would have been no Whisky Galore (whether speaking of the book or the film adaption) without the Coddie’s involvement. Even though, according to Compton Mackenzie, MacPherson had the gall to mix whisky with lemonade! This perhaps does not befit the image of an islander imbibing the strong stuff but the Coddie may be forgiven as he had quite a few stories up his sleeve about the shenanigans that went on after the S.S. Politician foundered near Eriskay in 1941 with her cargo of whisky still intact.

The Coddie even made a cameo appearance in the subsequently highly successful Ealing comedy made in 1949 where he can be seen dispensing some ill-gained whisky from a jar during the rèiteach, or engagement, scene. The Coddie was given the role of honorary adviser to the film-makers and acted as a mediator between the production team and the locals. With regard to local customs and getting the local ‘feel’ as authentic as it could possibly be as well as, of course, film locations, his advice was sought and heeded.

Despite the very poor summer of 1949 subsequently causing many delays to shooting and thus the budget to go well over, the project was very nearly abandoned but for a last minute reprieve. The Coddie’s involvement made the smooth working of local arrangements less of a burden to the production crew than would have been otherwise.

In 1945, when Compton Mackenzie decided for health reasons to quit Suidheachan, his house in Eoligarry, the Coddie told him in a letter that he was rather distraught that he was leaving Barra after having stayed a dozen years there:

…I am very sorry to hear you are winding up at Suidheachan and unfortunately cutting out Barra from your map. The fact that you were staying on it attracted a big percentage of the visitors to the island. Let us stick together and hold the Fort. This was hit me hard, losing Neilie, the flower of my family, and the business very much gone downwards…

Due to the loss of his son during the Second World War and that his shop was not doing so well as he might have hoped, the Coddie’s thus far fulfilling life was blighted during his remaining years. The Coddie being the Coddie, of course, kept going and could reflect upon and be proud of a rather remarkable career. The highlights of his public life were twofold as Barra’s Country Councillor; he saw success crowning his campaign to obtain funding for a new pier at Castlebay, and his involvement with Compton Mackenzie’s Whisky Galore. With his passing in 1955, there can be no doubt whatsoever that Barra had lost a real character the like of which will never be seen again.

References:

Alasdair Alpin MacGregor, The Western Isles (London: Robert Hale, 1949)

John MacPherson, Tales of Barra: Told by the Coddy, ed. by John Lorne Campbell (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 1992)

John Marshall, ‘Meeting the Coddie’, The Scots Magazine, vol. LIV, no. 6 (1951), pp. 73–77

NFC 1030: 197

Image:

John MacPherson, Northbay, Barra, c. 1947

Labels:

John MacPherson, The Coddie, Calum I. Maclean, Gaelic oral traditions, Northbay, John Lorne Campbell, Tales of Barra, Barra

A Fundraising Ceilidh for Fr John MacMillan of Barra

By 1946 Fr John MacMillan was living in retirement in Allasdale, a short distance from his place of birth, Craigston, in the northern part of Barra. Due to a heart condition, MacMillan had been suffering from ill health and, so, in September of 1946, the community decided to organise a fundraising ceilidh in order to give financial relief to the ailing priest. Calum Maclean writing in Irish Gaelic gives a brief description of the event in his diary:

Diardaoin, 26 Meadhon Fomhghair 1946 [NFC 1111, 98]

Bhíos a’ sgríobhadh ar a’ nós céadna ar maidin indiu. Leanas do’n sgríbhneóireacht go dtí sé a’ chlog tránóna. Bhí céilidhe ann anocht le airgead a bhailiú do’n Athair Iain MacGilleMhaoil, nach bhfial a shláinte aige chor ar bith. Bhí sluagh mór annsin, amhránaidhthe, píobaírí, rinnceoíri an-mhaith. Tá neart amhrán aca nach gcuala mise aríamh. Thugas cupla amhrán Gaedhilge (Éireann) dhóibh. Casadh an sagart paráiste orm an oidhche seo, fear deas é féin. Bhí rinnce ann tar éis an cheilidhe. Anois seo e an darna h-uair dhom-sa ag rince ó tháinig mé annseo. Tá cailíní breaghtha ins an oileán seo, is cosula go mór le cailíní Éireannacha iad na cailíní Alban. Bhíos a’ rinnce le caílin amháin a bhí rí-dhathúil ar fad. Bhí sí einéal cosúil le Florrie Fitzsimmons. Cloisim gurab e Rónán is sloinneadh dí. Rugadh í I mBarraidh ach Éireannach a b’ athair dí. Goirim í, an cailín is deise dár casadh orm le fada, fada.

Thursday, 26 September 1946 [NFC 1111, 98]

I transcribed this morning as usual. The transcription work continued until six o’clock in the evening. There was a ceilidh on tonight in order to raise money for Father John MacMillan who is not at all in good health. A big crowd attended, and there were exceedingly good singers, pipers and dancers. There were a great many songs that I’ve never heard before. I sang a couple of Irish songs for them. I met the parish priest tonight who seems like an affable fellow. There was a dance on after the ceilidh. This is now the second time I have danced since I came here. There are beautiful lassies on these islands and they’re far more like Irish than Scottish lassies. I danced with a lassie who was altogether very nice. She was very similar to Florrie Fitzsimmons. I heard he surname was Ronan. She was born in Barra though her father is Irish. I’d call her the nicest girl I have met in a long, long time.

Three days later, Maclean notes in his diary the following:

Dia Domhnaigh, 29 Meadhon Fomhghair 1946 [IFC 1111, 101]

Bhí an lá go h-an-bhréagha ar fad indiu. Chuadhas ar Aifreann a h-aon déag. Bhíos a’ cainnt le Iain MacGill’Eathain, Brudharnais, agus le Séamas Iain Ghunnairigh ar an mbealach abhaile. Bhíos a’ súil le Séamas Iain Ghunnairigh tar éis dinneara, ach nuair nár tháinig sé, thosaigheas a’ sgríobhadh. Tháinig sé ar a seacht a’ chlog, agus fritheadh an Eidifíon do. D’ innis sé leagan áluinn de’n sgéal Ridire na gCeist. Thosaigh sé air ar a cúig tar eis a h-ocht agus ní raibh sé críochnaighthe aige go dtí a deich tar éis a naoi. Buidheachas le Dia go bhfuil sé ann fós. Nuair a d’ imthigh Séamas, chuadhas sall go dtí an Coddie, leis na litreachaí chuig na páipéirí. D’ fhanas tamall a’ cainnt leis annsin. Bhí an oidhche go h-áluinn. Chuadhas a’ siubhal tamall roimh theacht abhaile.

Sunday, 29 September 1946 [IFC 1111, 101]

Altogether it was a beautiful day today. I attended Mass at eleven. I talked with John Maclean, Bruernish, and with James MacKinnon on the way home. I expected to see James MacKinnon after lunch but as he didn’t turn up I began transcribing. He arrived at seven o’clock and I set up the Ediphone for him. He told a beautiful version of Ridire nan Ceist (The Knight of the Questions). He began at five past eight and he didn’t finish until ten minutes after nine. Thanks be to God that he’s still alive. When James finished, we went over to see the Coddie [John MacPherson], with letters for the newspapers. I spent a while talking with him. It was a beautiful night. I went for a short walk before going back home.

The letter that Maclean mentioned duly appeared in The Oban Times (and perhaps in other local newspapers as well) in which all those that took part in the ceilidh are give a mention:

NORTHYBAY (BARRA).―The sum of £33 was raised at an enjoyable Ceilidh held in St Barr’s Church Hall, Northbay, on September 26, under the chairmanship of Rev. Fr. Malcolm Morrison, parish priest, to collect funds for a presentation to Rev. Fr. John MacMillan, the noted Barra priest, who had been in poor health for some time. The Ceilidh was opened with bagpipe selections from Mr Muroch MacNeill, a veteran piper of the Cameron Highlanders in the 1914–1918, and Mr Padruig MacKinnon, who served also through the 1939–46 war as a piper in the Scots Guards. The whole parish was well represented, and singers, dancers, and story-tellers from the various townships gave of their best to make the functions an outstanding success. Songs were contributed by Mrs Ronald MacNeill, Miss Mary MacKinnon and Master Alick MacNeill, all from Earsary; Mr J. Maclean, Bruernish; Mrs M. MacDonald, Arisaig; Mrs Galbraith, Mr Buchanan, and Mr Hugh MacKinnon, Eoligarry; Miss Veronica MacDonald, Ardmhor, and Mr C. I. Maclean, Ardveenish, the latter contributing songs in Irish Gaelic. Stories were told by Mr Neil MacKinnon and Mr Donald MacDonald, Eoligarry. Songs and Puirt-a-Beul were contributed by the Ardmhor Gaelic Choir. By the special request of the chairman a Scots Reel was danced by Mrs J. MacLeod, Ardmhor; Mrs Galbraith, Eoligarry; Mr Neil MacKinnon, Eoligarry, and Mr Gilbert MacLellan, Bogach. Rev. Fr. Morrison moved a vote of thanks to the artistes, and Mr John MacPherson, “Coddie,” proposed a vote of thanks to Rev. Fr. Morrison, who had conducted the Ceilidh so admirably. An equally enjoyable dance followed.

Although Fr John MacMillan survived for another five years his health didn’t really improve as he eventually succumbed to a series of heart attacks and passed away in 1951. The funds raised at the ceilidh would have helped him throughout his remaining years. On his return to Barra the following hear, Maclean fondly remembers his time with Fr John MacMillan:

I did return again to Barra, for one rarely fails to do that. I came at the request of Father John MacMillan…He is now almost seventy, but he still sings well and is also a veritable mine of traditional lore. It was a short visit, but in one day alone I recorded over thirty songs from Father MacMillan. One was a very beautiful song addressed to Prince Charlie, a song which tradition ascribes to Flora MacDonald. Many of Father MacMillan’s songs are now known to him alone. He heard them in Barra, Uist, Benbecula, and in Eigg over forty years ago from people who have longs since returned slowly to dust. Barra has many people of whom it can feel justly proud. Father John MacMillan is certainly one of them.

References:

Calum I. Maclean, ‘In Search of Folklore in the Western Isles’, Scotland’s S.M.T. Magazine, vol. 40, no. 6 (1947), pp. 40–44

Calum I. Maclean & John MacPherson, ‘Northbay (Barra)’, The Oban Times, no. 4789 (12 Oct., 1946), p. 6

NFC 1111 [Calum Maclean’s diaries from 1945 to 1948]

Image:

Fr John MacMillan of Barra, c. 1946, Barra

Traditions of John MacCodrum

Quite a few traditions concerning John MacCodrum (1693–1779), styled Iain mac Fhearchair ’ic Codruim, were collected by Calum Maclean from various storytellers. Here, for example, is one such story collected from the recitation of John MacPherson, styled Iain mac Chaluim Mhòir, who belonged to Lionacleit, Benbecula, but then staying in the remote isle of Rarnish. Given the biographical sketch given in Maclean’s entry of the day he met him, MacPherson seems to have been a rather remarkable character. The following item was recorded by Calum Maclean on the 4th of September 1949:

 

’S e bàr^sd ainimeil a bh’ ann gad nach eil cus dhen obair aige ann a sgrìobhadh. Chan e sgoilear a bh’ ann. Bha an taigh aige ann arn Peubail agus bhiodh e fhèin agus a nàbaidhean a’ deànamh an treabhaidh còmhladh. Cha robh iad a’ cumail ach each an duine. Ach chaill Iain mac Fhearachair an t-each an àm an treabhaidh agus chuala e an seo gun robh each sa Cheann a Deas, ann an àite ris an can iad Stadhlaigearraidh, agus na rachadh e a dh’ iarraidh an eich gu robh e col(t)ach gu leòr gu faigheadh e e. Dh’fhal^abh Iain MacCodrum agus chaidh e dhan Cheann a Deas gu ruige Stadhlaigearraidh agus cheannaich e an t-each agus thug e dhachaigh e. Rinn iad an treabhadh am pàir^st, agus nuair a bha an treabhadh seachad is grothaichean dhen t-seòrsa sin, tha a dh’fhasan ac(hc)a, tha e ac(hc)a gon an latha an-diugh, a bhith a’ leigeadh nan each mar sgaoil as a’ mhòintich gus an tig àm tarraing na mònadh. Leig Iain mac Fhearachair an t-each mar sgaoil còmh’ ri càch agus nuair a thànaig àm tarraing ri mònadh, dh’fhal^abh e ga iarraidh. ’S e Seumas a bh’ air an each, an t-ainⁱm a bh’ aige air. Agus nuair a ràinig Iain mac Fhearchair ’s ann a thionndaidh an t-each air agus thionndaidh an t-each gu dubh air agus ’s ann a rinn Iain mac Fhearachair òran dhà. 
 

And the translation goes something like this:
 

He was a famous bard although not much of his work appears in print. He wasn’t a scholar. He had a house in Paible and he and his neighbours used to plough together. They kept a horse only for one man. But John MacCodrum lost the horse at ploughing time and he heard that there was a horse in South Uist at a place they call Stilligarry and if he went to fetch the horse then he would probably get it. John MacCodrum set out and he went to Stilligarry in South Uist and he purchased the horse and brought it home. They each took a turn at ploughing and when the ploughing was finshed and other types of work like that it was the custom, and it remains to this day, to let the horses free to roam the hills until it was time to cut the peat. John MacCodrum let the horse free along with the others and when it came to peat-cutting time he went to fetch it. The horse was named James; that was the name he gave it. And when John MacCodrum reached the place where the horse it turned fiercely on him and so John MacCodrum composed a song for it.

 

Calum Maclean gives an interesting description of his visit to John MacPherson in Rarnish:

 

Didòmhnaich, 4 An Sultain 1949

Chaidh mi dhan Aifreann sa mhadainn agus an uair a fhuair mi air ais is a fhuair mi mo dhinnear rinn mi deiseil airson a dhol a-mach gu Ràrnais air taobh an iar an eilein. Chuala mi o chionn fhada gun robh sgeulaiche mach a-muigh an sin, Iain mac Chaluim Mhòir. Cha chuala mi e ag innseadh sgeulachdan roimhe ach chuala mi gun robh na sgeulachdan aige. Cha robh mi ach air ùr-thighinn a Bheinne na Faoghla nuair a chuala mi ma dheidhinn an toiseach. Ach bha an t-àite anns a bheil e glè dhuilich fhaighinn a-mach ga ionnsaigh. Chan eil rathad idir a’ dol a-mach gu Ràrnais. Feumar a dhol ann le bàta. Co-dhiù, thàinig car gam iarraidh mu dhà uair feasgar agus thugadh sìos gu cidhe Ghramasdail mi. Bha bàta ri thighinn aig leth-uair an dèidh dhà, ach b’ fheudar dhomh fuireach air cidhe Ghramasdail gus an robh e ceithir uairean feasgar. Bhrist inneal a’ bhàta agus chum sin air ais iad. Bha astar còrr is trì mile againn ri dhèanamh mun d’fhuair sinn a-mach Ràrnais. Bha mac le Iain mac Chaluim Mhòir a’ dol a-mach còmhla ri fear a’ bhàta. Chunnaic mi sealladh math air eilean Ghrimiosaigh air an taobh a tuath. Tha sluagh mòr dhaoine a’ fuireach ann. Cha robh mi riamh thall ann fhathast. Tha Iain Mac a’ Phearsain a’ fuireach ann an taigh beag iarainn air bruaich a’ chladaich. Ri taobh an taighe aige tha ballachan de thiugh mòr cloiche a bha e fhèin a’ togail. Cha do chuir e crìoch air fhathast. Tha e fhèin air aon t-sùil agus tha e gu bhith dall. Cha mhòr gum faic e dad idir. Tha e gu bhith ceithir fichead bliadhna a-niste. Tha a bhean marbh agus chan eil còmhla ris a-staigh ach dithis mhac. Bha nighean phòsda leis aig an taigh cuideachd còmhla ris an duine aice agus dithis chloinne. Cha robh Gàidhlig aig an duine idir. Rugadh Iain Mac a’ Phearsain ann an Lìonaclait am Beinne na Faoghla. Bha trì duine deug anns an teaghlach. Chaidh e gu muir nuair a bha e glè òg. B’ ann air soitheach seòlaidh a chaidh e an toiseach a-mach gu San Francisco. Thug iad 112 latha air an turas. Bha e a’ seòladh gu New Zealand agus Australia as dèidh sin. Bha e ag obair greis an Australia. Bha e cuideachd anns na Solomon Islands, ann am French Guinea agus bha e a-staigh ann am meadhan Àfrica mu dheas. Nuair a thàinig an aois air thill e dhachaigh gu Beinne na Foghla. Bha e a’ fuireach greis ann an Grìminis agus thàinig e an uair sin a-mach gu Ràrnais. ’S e ban-Shasannach a bha pòsda aige ach a dh’ aindeoin sin tha Gàidhlig aig na mic agus an nighean. ’S e sgeulaiche math a th’ ann. Nuair a bha a na ghille òg ann an Lìonaclait bha dithis bhoireannach ann aig an robh sgeulachdan, Màiri nighean Mhìcheil agus Caitrìona nighean Mhìcheil. ’S ann aca-san a chuala mac Chaluim Mhòir na sgeulachdan. Cha robh sinn fada ann gus an do thòisich sinn air na sgeulachdan. Thug e dhomh an toiseach an sgeulachd, Uilleam Dèan Suidhe. Bha innseadh math dhith aige. Thug e dhomh cuideachd an sgeulachd, Bireachan Beag agus Bireachan Mòr. Bha i seo aige gu math cuideachd. An uair sin thug e dhomh na sgeulachdan mun triùir bhraithrean a dh’fhalbh leis a’ bhonnach mòr is am mollachd, dithis dhiubh, agus am bonnach beag is am beannachd aig an fhear a b’ òige. Chaidh leis an fhear òg gu math. Cha chuala mi an sgeulachd seo roimhe ach tha i coltach ri grunn math dhe na sgeulachdan eadar-nàiseanta. Fhuair mi òrain bhuaithe cuideachd agus seanchas mu Dhonnchadh Bàn agus Alasdair mac Mhaighstir Alasdair. Bha e mu ochd uairean as t-oidhche nuair a b’ fheudar dhomh tilleadh a chionn chan fhaigheadh am bàta a-staigh gu cidhe Ghramasdail mura biodh an làn freagarrach. Bha droch oidhche againn a’ tilleadh dhachaigh. Dh’fhalbh an stiùir dhen bhàta nuair a bha sinn mu choinneamh Ghriomasaigh agus b’ fheudar dhuinn tilleadh agus am faighinn. Bha oidhche fhluich ann nuair a fhuair mi dhachaidh.

 

Sunday, 4 September 1949

I attended Mass in the morning and when I got back I got my dinner and made ready to go out to Rarnish on the west side of the island. I heard a long while back that there was a good storyteller out there called Iain mac Chaluim Mhòir (John MacPherson). I’ve never heard him telling stories before but I heard that he has stories. I had only recently arrived in Benbecula when I heard about him at first. But the place in which he stays is very difficult to get to. There is no road going out to Rarnish at all. It has to be reached by boat. Anyway, a car came to fetch me around two o’clock in the afternoon and I was taken down to Gramasdale pier. The boat was to arrive at half-past two but I had to wait at Gramasdale pier until four o’clock in the afternoon. The boat’s engine broke and that kept them back. There was a distance of more than three miles to travel before we reached Rarnish. John MacPherson’s son came out with the boatman. I got a good view of Grimisay towards the north. A great many folk stay on it. I’ve never been there before. John MacPherson stays in a small iron shack on the shore side. Besides his house there are large, thick stonewalls that he was building. He hasn’t completed it yet. He has only one eye and he’s going blind. He can scarcely see anything at all. He’s nearly eighty years old now. His wife is dead and he has only his two sons who stay with him. He also has a daughter married in the house along with her are her husband and their two children. Her husband doesn’t speak Gaelic at all. John MacPherson was born in Lionacleit in Benbecula. He was one of thirteen of a family. He went to sea when he was very young. He went at first on a sailing ship out to San Francisco. He spent 112 days on the journey. He sailed to New Zealand and Australia after that. He worked for a while in Australia. He was also in the Solomon Islands, in French Guinea and was in the middle of South Africa. When he grew old he returned home to Benbecula. He stayed for a while in Griminish and then he came out to Rarnish. He was married to an English woman but despite that his sons and daughter speak Gaelic. He’s a good storyteller. When he was a young lad in Lionacleit there were two women who were storytellers: Màiri nighean Mhìcheil agus Caitrìona nighean Mhìcheil. It was from them that John MacPherson heard his stories. It wasn’t long before we began on the stories. He gave me to begin with the story, Uilleam Dèan Suidhe (Willie Sit Down). He had a good version of it. He also gave me the story Bireachan Beag agus Bireachan Mòr (Wee Bireachan and Big Bireachan). He also told this well. Then he gave me the stories about the three brothers who left with the big bannock with a curse, two of them, and the little bannock with a blessing for the youngest one. The young man faired well. I’ve never heard this story before but it appears to be like a good lot of the international tales. I also got songs from him and an anecdote about Duncan Bàn Macintyre and Alexander MacDonald. It was around eight o’clock at night when I had to return for the boat wouldn’t be able to berth at Gramasdale pier if the tide wasn’t suitable. We had a bad night of it returning home. The rudder broke off when we were opposite Grimisay and we had to go back to get it. It was a wet night by the time I got home.

 

References:

William Matheson (ed.), The Songs of John MacCodrum: Bard to Sir James MacDonald of Sleat (Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1938)

NFC 1301: 72–77

NFC 1179: 312–13

 

Image:

North Uist / Uibhist a Tuath